


Auto-pilot

by amy_vic



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-08
Updated: 2010-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna compartmentalizes very well. Until she can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auto-pilot

I was in Josh's office, searching for the notes for tomorrow's meeting, and I didn't notice all the people out in the hallway. Security has been a lot tighter since...well, since about 10:30 last Monday night. Most of the time, all the suits blend into the background.

"Hi, Donna. How are you?"

Oh my God. The President just walked in. Why is he here, now? And how the hell did I miss those agents?

"Good evening, Mr. President. I'm fine, thank you."

"Listen, I know that you've been dealing with quite a bit the last few weeks, and I think you should take a break."

Where the hell is that file? "I appreciate your concern, but I'm okay with all this. Really. It's fine."

"Donna…" Oh, shit. That's the 'I'm about to get a lecture' voice. I haven't heard that since the night I called my parents to tell them I was dropping out of school.

"Sir, I assure you, I'm fine. I don't have any problem doing this until Josh gets back. I can handle it."

"Donna, I really think that-"

"I said I'm fine, okay? Don't worry about it."

Wow. Um. Wow. I just snapped at the President. That...that was not good. Maybe if I keep my head down and just try to find that file, he'll let it go.

"Donna, look at me a second, would you?" No, please don't make me. I don't think I can.

"Mr. President, I'm sorry. That was incredibly out of line. I apologize." See? I can do it without even looking you in the eye, and it still sounds pretty good.

"Donna, you need to go home, take a break. When was the last time you slept?"

Well, I actually made it back to my apartment last night, instead of passing out here for about 2 hours, like I did the other day. Does that count?

"I'm okay. I just have to find this thing for tomorrow morning, I'm stopping to see Josh, and then I'm going right home." I still haven't looked up from the desk, but I can tell he doesn't believe me. But right now, I have to find those notes for tomorrow's meeting, otherwise, I'm screwed.

I'm still searching for them when I glance up and find that the President has moved a stack of papers off one of the chairs and sat down.

"Was there something else you needed, Mr. President?"

"Yes." When he doesn't say anything else, I finally have to force myself to stop messing around and look at him. It's much more difficult than you'd think.

"Sir?"

"I need you to go home and sleep. All this stuff can wait."

"But, I still have to-"

"Josh will be okay, you know."

Why wouldn't Josh be okay? He's lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to equipment that looks like it belongs on a space shuttle, with industrial-grade staples holding his chest closed. Yes, I'm sure he'll be fine.

"I-I know that, Mr. President. It's just that...I have to finish this. It has to get done for the morning."

"Sit down for a minute, please, Donna." Do I have a choice? It's not like I can tell you to go away.

"Donna, I know that you're trying very hard to keep Josh's office running smoothly, and we all appreciate that very much. But I think you need to keep in mind the fact that you don't have to do it all single-handedly."

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this; I've got everything under control."

"Well, if you'll pardon me for saying so, I really don't think you do, Donna." _Excuse me?_ I must have given him a pretty nasty look, because the President quickly waved a hand at me, and continued talking.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't being clear on what I meant. I can see you've got the work stuff under control, but you need to take a break for a bit. Keep all this up, and you'll burn out. You don't need that." Should I be reading anything into the fact that President Bartlet is looking at me right now with the exact same expression my dad has mastered? It's the same one I got when Dad caught me writing a paper for my 10th Grade Sociology course. Of course, I'd just come back from a ski trip, and I was in bed with a broken leg and the flu, so I can kind of see why Dad was upset.

I refuse to cry in front of the President. I will not do it. I-oh, damn.

I must have, I don't know, blacked out for a second, because I suddenly find my head over Josh's garbage can. I'm fairly mortified to realize that President Bartlet is kneeling next to me, holding my hair with one hand and rubbing my back with the other. He's alternating between telling me everything's okay, snapping at the agents at the door that he's fine, and asking them if they would please get the First Lady down here right away.

After a minute, I pull back, trying to shield my face as much as possible. I don't care if he does have three daughters, two of whom are older than I am; I have never been this embarrassed in my entire life. "Sir, I'm...I'm okay. Let me just..." I start rummaging in Josh's desk drawer. I'm pretty sure that some of my stuff has ended up in here. Right...yup, there's what I need. Blame Sam for my keeping a toothbrush at work.

"I'll just be a minute. Really, I'm okay," I say when it looks like he's about to send an agent with me.

The bathroom, blessedly, is empty. I brush my teeth and wash my face, catching my reflection in the mirror as I finish up. My hair looks dull, and the dark circles under my eyes stand out on paler-than-usual skin. It takes me a second to realize that it's not the lighting in here that's causing me to look this way. This is me, now. This is what people have been seeing for the past 13 days.

Something snaps then, and I end up sitting on the floor next to the sink, crying. I can't deal with this. Josh nearly died. I had to see it first on the news, for God's sake. They had video from it, and they-

(_Josh was hit_)

"Donna?"

Great. Now I get to look gross in front of the President and the First Lady, all in the space of about 10 minutes. I can't stand up. Hell, I can't even look up.

"Donna, it's going to be fine, I promise."

"You can't know that."

"Yeah, Donna, I do know that." That's right-I forgot. The doctors tell her more than the rest of us, because she's got the same PhD as they do.

"But what if he isn't okay?"

And then, instead of trying to get me to stand up, the First Lady sits down on the floor next to me. I stare at the toothbrush in my lap while she tells the agents with her to please wait outside.

"Donna, look at me a second, could you?"

My head feels like it's made of concrete, but I manage to lift it enough to look Dr. Bartlet in the eye. I'm afraid she's going to tell me I'm being silly, behaving this way over my boss. I'm afraid she's going to tell me that I need to stop being such clingy little girl, the way my mother did when I first moved back home.

So I'm surprised when she reaches out to stroke my hair, and says, "He'll be okay, Donna. Josh always makes it through."

"But, I don't-" That's all I can get out before I really let go. Who did I think I was kidding? I can't handle any of this. It suddenly occurs to me that I've never been in this building without Josh being here, too. Actually, most of the campaign was like that. If Josh was out of the office, I was nearby, making sure he had everything he needed.

I start sobbing. Dr. Bartlet, surprisingly, just lets me. Wraps one arm around my waist, the other around my shoulders, and just lets me sob. Oddly, my first thought is 'I wonder if this is how Zoey felt on Monday night?' I should ask Charlie later, make sure they're both okay.

I don't know how long we stay that way, but eventually, I get it together enough and pull away a little.

"Do you feel a little better now, Donna?"

"No, actually, ma'am, I don't think so. But thank you."

"You don't have to thank me, Donna."

We both stand up, me with one hand on the wall for stability.

"I should really get going, ma'am," I say as I grab a couple of paper towels and wipe my face.

"I'd like it if an agent went with you. You aren't in any condition to drive."

I nod, because she's right, and I can't exactly argue with the First Lady. Plus, my car is actually in the shop right now; you'd think that a three year old Chevy wouldn't break down as often as it does. Luckily, the weather's gotten nice enough that I can walk to work.

I remember, that first day in Manchester, I told Josh that I'd sleep on the floor and sell my car if he let me come along to South Carolina. He made it sound like such a big deal, but then he booked me the hotel room next to him. He also arranged a rental car for me (after he found out I really _had_ sold my car), until I'd made enough money to buy something decent. He used—god, this is going to make him sound like he's 17—he told me once that his mother gave him a credit card, right before he moved to Washington. I guess his parents had been putting money on this card for years, and they told him it was 'only for emergencies'. I mean, who gives there grown son an emergency card? But that's what he used to pay for everything.

Leo never could figure out how a 23-year-old college dropout managed to afford nearly 11 weeks in hotels like the ones we stayed in. I laugh for a second, remembering the strange looks he used to give Josh and I. I think he'd been listening to Margaret too much; she-along with quite a few other people-had become convinced that Josh only hired me so he could sleep with me. (For the record, Josh has never entertained that thought, not even a little.)

"Something funny, Donna?" The First Lady smiles at me, but I can tell she thinks I'm losing it. Maybe I really am, who knows?

"I owe Josh some money." Josh has to be okay; I still have to pay him back. He doesn't know it, but I've been saving up to repay him-every penny from the day I started working for him.

The First Lady, of course, has no idea what I'm talking about, but she rests a hand on my back. "You'll be able to pay him back, Donna. Trust me."

I hope so, because otherwise...otherwise, he'll be getting one hell of a headstone.


End file.
